Avignon merry-go-round
Travel weary, we lugged our heavy backpacks from the bus station in Avignon to our lovely camp ground, situated on an island in the middle of the beautiful Rhône. Although little over a 20 minute walk, we struggled to make our way there … Serena moaning and groaning far more than usual and being sorely tempted to jump a bus (which would only have saved us about 750 metres of walking). This meant we were either exhausted from the whirlwind trip through Andalusia and Barcelona, or simply getting a bit lazy and ready for some time out. Either way, we were both delighted to find that our camp ground was one of the most stunningly located of our stay.
We slipped seamlessly into this French chapter of our journey, spending perfect early autumn evenings on the banks of the Rhône, picnicking on cheap Bordeaux, excellent cheese, delicious salads and super desserts. Each evening put on a different show, the sunset with beautiful milky purples and soft pinks, the opening act for the large, pearly moon rising over the gargantuan gothic masterpiece, the Palais des Papes.
home sweet home
cheese o'clock
Palais des Papes
The Palais des Papes is impressive from almost any angle of the city, but particularly so from across the Rhône. It was built in the 1300s during the brief period when the Popes lived in Avignon, not Rome. The town is understandably proud of this chapter of its history, and we had fun watching the Son & Lumière, a 30-minute show of sound and light projected on the Palais des Papes.
Son & Lumière
What we enjoyed most was seeing the square packed with French people as this wasn’t your run-of-the-mill everyday tourist show, but rather an extravaganza put on to celebrate the 700th anniversary of the first pope of Avignon (Pope Clement V, who arrived in 1309). Although not an artistic wonder, there was plenty of loud pompous music and ever changing lights to keep one amused. The palace itself, though fairly empty, is nonetheless a captivating space with impressive architecture and some touching albeit damaged frescos.
Palais des Papes
Palais des Papes
snooping thwarted once more in the Palais des Papes
Lasting impressions
It was here in Avignon, one peaceful early morning, that we finally understood what had driven the Impressionists. We woke to a soupy fog rolling thickly down the Rhône, which lingered for our jog along its banks. As we headed upstream the remaining arches of the ruined Avignon bridge loomed from the lifting fog, just as the sun peeked up over the hill and its orange, liquid rays backlit the magical scene. The light was extraordinary – lavender petals falling gently into freshly churned butter. The poplars slowly began their shimmering in Pissarro green, while the burning gold Van Gogh sunstreaks sparked up silvery Monet shards of the river. This one fleeting window of time prepared us more for understanding the Musee d’Orsay collection a fortnight later than years of university art history lessons ever could.
Pont d'Avignon
Avignon had been chosen as our gateway to Provence, a leaping point we could reach from Barcelona and from which we would leap again further to the east, towards the Côte d’Azur. Avignon decided otherwise. Day by day we ruled out visiting other contenders, the pull of this perfect little walled town’s character giving us reason after reason to stay just one more day. We journeyed down to Arles, where Van Gogh painted some of his most memorable works towards the end of his life.
arles
Our daytrip to Arles, though pleasant, made us realise that Avignon was a great spot simply to be, and it was being that we had forgotten how to do. So over the next six days we made ourselves more than familiar with the local markets, the fromageries, the bakeries and the wine providores and did the best impression we could muster of simply being French. In that time we also managed a fairly thorough exploration of the town and spent two great days riding off into the Provencal countryside.
the hard life
mouthwatering macaroons
When in Rome France
So what did we think being French involved? Beyond our pathetic attempts at French conversation, it involved drinking small, strong, perfectly made café in one of the town’s many squares. It meant riding our bikes over the cobbled streets to the daily produce market and selecting fantastic local apples, wonderful chevré (goat’s cheese), and trying out the local breadshops until we discovered the one that made a baguette exactly the way we liked it, not too crunchy, not too fluffy and with a rich but not overpowering sourdough base. It meant becoming friends with our fromagère, so that she recognised us and knew our tastes, helping us with suggestions of new cheese to select. Trying to be French meant practising the ritual politeness that is a must whenever entering a store: a first ‘bonjour’ to greet the store owner, a second bonjour to signify you were ready to order, then a series of merci, au revoir, bon journeé, etc to thank and exit the store. Shopping was not for those in a hurry.
fromage homage
bundle of joy
ooooozing
Practicing being French also meant a lot of time on bikes. Which was fine by us – great bikes, great bike lanes, even terrain, no rain and friendly people made being on a bike pretty much perfect. We managed two full day rides to the smaller towns surrounding Avignon. The first ride took us north up along the Rhône, past Savveterre and Roquemaure, stopping by the wide river to enjoy our breadsticks, pate and fresh fruit. Post lunch, we continued on to Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a postcard perfect town on the top of a hill that exists solely to make wine, and pretty damn good wine at that. The town was perfectly set up for sampling, consuming and buying large quantities of their produce in the most pleasant manner possible.
on the road again
Cellarbrations
We tried a tasting at a fairly humdrum cellar and were ultimately pleased their wine wasn’t very quaffable, for it meant we headed back up towards the chateau ruins on the top of the hill, choosing Cave du Verger des Papes as a likely candidate for good wines and were just in time to join a handful of other people for a fantastic tasting experience under the tutelage of Guy, a French sommelier who had spent some time in Australia almost 10 years ago. He took us through a great range of local drops and while we were perhaps a little wonkier on our way back to Avignon that we had been on our way out, it had been a lot of fun. Whilst taking us through some interesting wines, the best of which were well beyond our backpackers price bracket, he also encouraged us to work on describing the nose and palate of the wine, teaching us how to ‘oxygenate’ (or suck air into) the wine … a trick that would come in handy later in Burgundy. There was a €49 Châteauneuf-du-Pape that moderately impressed us, but given we would be drinking out of plastic cups over a campside meal, we settled for the €25 2005 ‘Saint Henri’ Chateauneuf-du-Pape, which had some of the trademark nose of the better wines but was less balanced and not as complex. Mind you it was definitely the highlight of our meal that night.
underground tasting
saintly
On the second day we struck out to the south for St-Remy-de-Provence, coasting along deserted country lanes and passing through some beautiful apple and pear orchards. A fortuitous wrong turn took us to the tiny village of Graveson, where we stopped off for the most sensational chocolate tart imaginable and enjoyed watching the local kids strap themselves into a huge, inflatable, lifesized table soccer game.
pedal power
foosball
We rode on through the charming town of Maillane, stopping at St-Remy for lunch and to meander along the streets where close to 100 artists were displaying their paintings and sculptures. Tossing up between the easy option of heading straight home, or getting a few dozen more kms under our belt and experiencing more of the countryside, we took the longer path soaking in more and more of the countryside. Our route home took us through the tiny town of Noves where we stopped in at a great little local cafe just as the entire village’s population began their Sunday afternoon ‘Loto’ session. The small carafe of rosé was embarrassingly cheap so we felt obliged to order the larger one, telling ourselves we could always leave some. Of course we didn’t, so it was another wobbly ride home, but we got back to camp safe and sound again, France being another country where the cyclist seems to be treated as almost sacred by any passing motorists.
rosé coloured glasses
After such a perfect start to France, there was only one thing that could tear us away from Avignon. You might be able to guess… but we’ll tell you about it next time.
